


The Cold of Flesh and Stone.

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Christmas, M/M, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe I'm sick of spending Christmas elbow deep inside something's intestines, or standing in a grave somewhere in the freezing cold waiting for bones to burn."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold of Flesh and Stone.

  
Dean's researching again when Sam gets back to the motel. Still looking for some reference to what the hell's going on in town.

All they've managed to find out from the locals so far is exactly what the papers had already told them. In the last month four people had been snatched from town in the night, with only crushed, churned up ground and drag marks left behind. A little investigating had turned up nothing but some barns and outbuildings smashed apart like some huge creature had gone on a rampage.

Dean's got no actual evidence the devastation had been done by the same thing. But his gut's telling him pretty fiercely that assuming this time isn't going to leave him looking like an ass.

Sam comes through the door trailing cold air, and the faraway strains of tinny radio Christmas carols creep in around him, he stamps snow off his boots - and is almost immediately distracted by the new addition to the room.

He looks at the tree, then at Dean. There's surprise somewhere there behind the hair, which quickly becomes a bewildered frown.

"What?" Dean asks, over a particularly gruesome picture of a hobgoblin.

"Where did you get a tree?" Sam says slowly, as if he's only half certain Dean knows it's there.

"I found it," Dean tells him.

Sam raises a dubious eyebrow. "You found it?"

"Uh huh."

"Where did you find it?"

"Outside."

"Outside, just sitting around?" Sam asks, with that edge of cautious accusation he's so good at.

Dean nods and grins up at him. "Just sitting around with no one near it."

Sam sighs.

"Dean, I don't think it's technically getting into the spirit of things if you steal Christmas."

"I didn't _steal_ Christmas."

Sam dumps the bag he's carrying on the table, the heavy thud of books and salt landing on wood, then he tosses the key down after it and shrugs out of his jacket.

"Ok, forget the where, how about why, why is there a tree?"

"It's the 22nd of December," Dean points out, because, sure, having a Christmas tree in June would be weird, but it's kind of self-explanatory on the 22nd of December.

"I know it's the 22nd of December but we don't usually -" Sam waves a hand, as if to describe all the things they don't usually do. Dean kind of thinks he's left the rest hanging because there are so many of them. They've always failed at being like everyone else.

Dean pulls a face, then shrugs.

"Maybe I'm sick of spending Christmas elbow deep inside something's intestines, or standing in a grave somewhere in the freezing cold waiting for bones to burn." He jerks his head across the room. "Maybe I wanted a tree."

Sam eyeballs the tree again, as if he's debating throwing holy water on it, on the off chance that Dean might be possessed by the spirit of Christmas.

Sam's kind of paranoid.

"We still have to find out whatever this thing is and kill it, and you know how our luck usually runs when we make plans right?"

"I'm not making plans," Dean grumbles. "I just -"

"Decorated while I was gone," Sam says curiously.

"A little bit, I decorated a little bit," Dean admits.

Sam wanders over to the tree.

"You've apparently decorated it with bullets and mini glow sticks," he says cautiously, like Dean might immediately demand to know why that was wrong.

Sam pokes at the bullets, making two of them clink together.

"I figured fairy lights and baubles weren't really us," Dean tells him flatly. "And this way the tree's also useful should we be surprised in our beds by -"

"Zombie Santa?" Sam offers.

Dean throws a glow stick at him and Sam completely fails to catch it. But he's kind of impressed by his genius decorating skills, because, really, the scouts have nothing on the Winchesters almost obsessive ability to be prepared. A Christmas tree that's also an exercise in protection and small arms fire. That feels very family-appropriate, and hell if they're starting traditions they might as well do it right.

Not that Dean had thought about, or intended it as anything other than, God, he doesn't even know, a whim, some sort of strange last ditch attempt at a family Christmas with all the family he had left. If this thing, whatever it is, has the good sense to die before then.

Sam moves one of the branches, leaving bits of pine all over the carpet and he makes a face like he's going to say something about that too, but then he finds something that jingles.

"Is that an anti-incubus charm?"

"It's been temporarily reassigned as a Christmas decoration until further notice," Dean tells him.

"In case an incubus tries to steal our tree?" Sam guesses.

"You never know what those crafty bastards will do," Dean replies with a perfectly straight face.

Sam huffs laughter.

"So what made you get a tree, really?"

Dean sighs and lets his book hit the arm of the chair.

"I don't know, maybe that there's a really good chance that we won't get another one," he says roughly. "Completely ignoring the fact that it may actually be the end of the world if we can't stop this whole thing from snowballing. Our track record when it comes to Christmas sucks. Hell, our track record with pretty much everything sucks. We're always going to fail at traditional holiday celebrations. Obviously, we're not everyone else, we're a special category of messed up. But maybe, just once, I don't want to spend Christmas getting sacrificed, or force-choked by a ghost, or delirious because my last bullet wound went septic, and, Jesus, Sam, we should be able to have that, shouldn’t we? We should be able to take two days where we eat stupid food and drink and look at a ridiculous tree and don't kill anything, or get killed by anything."

Sam isn't wearing his mocking face any more.

Christ, Dean barely remembered to take a breath there.

"Shouldn't we?" he demands.

"Yeah," Sam says quietly. "Yeah, I think maybe we should."

Dean grunts, because he's fairly sure he'd gotten a little more 'lifetime movie' there than he originally intended.

"It's a good tree, it's very..." Sam gives it a more thorough once-over. "It's very family-appropriate."

"See, that's what I was thinking," Dean tells him. "That we're never gonna get away with being like other people so we shouldn't even try." He shrugs. "I thought maybe I'd ask Cas if he wants to stick around too, if he shows up."

Sam stops admiring the tree and raises an eyebrow at him.

"You want to invite an angel to spend Christmas with us?" he asked dubiously.

Dean's almost surprised to realise that's exactly what he wants.

"Yeah."

"Dean, he's an angel."

"Yeah, so?"

"An angel, for Christmas." Sam makes his 'this cannot end well' face. "I'm not entirely sure that isn't blasphemous in some way."

"He can't exactly go home," Dean points out, because they'd pretty much forced him to burn that bridge.

Sam sighs, something quiet and guilty, and Dean doesn't know why he's choosing to feel guilty about that, if anything it's Dean's fault that Castiel has no home to go back to.

"I don't know," Dean shrugs, forces a nonchalance that he almost wishes was real. "Hell, maybe he won't even want to stick around, maybe he'll be busy finding God." He throws that out but it doesn't feel half as careless as he means it to.

"Maybe he'll just be wandering the streets like the little match girl," Sam says, and Dean figures that means Dean should just do whatever the hell he wants, since he's probably going to do it anyway.

"I'm not quite sure where we'll put him," Dean admits, looking at the two beds. "I know he doesn't sleep but it's weird when he just stands around."

"We could always put him on top of the tree," Sam offers.

"Funny." Dean's tone of voice makes sure to tell him that it really, really isn't.

Though Sam's still smiling like a lunatic.

"Dude, you left that wide open. You should be ashamed of how easy that was."

  
***

  
They find the hole just before lunchtime the next day.

It's six feet wide and it yawns open, torn into the edge of a hill in a way there's absolutely no chance of missing. Someone's thrown up a 'Caution: Sinkhole,' sign. Which Dean thinks is particularly laughable considering where exactly it is and how the edges of the hole look like they've been clawed out.

The general population's ability to delude itself never ceases to surprise him.

"Are you sure you want to go down there," Sam asks carefully.

Dean's half tempted to be honest and tell him 'hell no.' The big creepy hole in the ground that smells like wet mud and death is not on his top ten list of places to visit. But they've hauled the rope out now and there's nothing to tie it to up here, and Sam weighs a ton, so he's officially top-side for this one.

He makes a rough noise instead of answering and slings the rope round his waist twice, knots it tight enough to hold him but not so tight that he can't get out of it if he has to.

"Just keep your eyes open," he tells Sam.

The angle down is sharp enough that he can't walk down, but not bad enough that Sam will have to physically haul him out again.

He skids down carefully on his boots and one hand, slides into the dark.

Once he comes to a stop on mostly solid ground he drags a flashlight out of his jacket, twists it on. As far as he can tell it's just a hole scooped into the dirt so far, it's not hiding anything, it doesn’t lead anywhere but into more dirt.

There's a low thrum in the earth, the sound of someone using farm equipment far away. He carefully works his way deeper, and instead of getting colder the tunnel gets warmer, the low drone of sound louder the further in he gets.

It suddenly occurs to him...what the hell kind of farming do people do at Christmas?

"Crap," he says quietly.

The walls shudder and the low, deep drone is shallower than before and it's nothing machine related - that's freakin' breathing. That's something vast and heavy, breathing at the end of the tunnel and Dean's absolutely certain that his gun isn't going to cut it, that they're going to have to make a strategic retreat here and come back with something a hell of a lot bigger.

He takes two steps back, torch swinging in the dark, and something up ahead shifts in the light, a great shudder of movement that fills the whole tunnel and then some. He's back-stepping the way he came, quickly but carefully, and the sound is now short and rough and much too close.

Something slams into the tunnel wall up ahead, and Dean swears and almost ends up on his knees when the whole tunnel vibrates, dirt showering down in a great cascade to the left of him. Another solid shudder and the wave of dirt comes again, larger, longer, and Dean's not back-stepping anymore but running the way he came, snatching up the rope and knotting it quick and tight round his waist.

Because the whole damn tunnel is collapsing. The thing, whatever the hell it is, is bringing the tunnel down around him. Dean's scrambling up the side of the slope, hands clawing upwards, boots kicking holes in the side, dirt and rocks flying down, or up, to smack into his skin. He's climbing faster than Sam can pull, sliding and tripping on the slack of the rope and - fuck - the whole world caves in, a slap of damp weight which drives him into the floor and he gives one last surge upwards.

He's pretty sure he has one hand above ground.

But then there's nothing but dirt everywhere and it's crushing him in from all sides, squeezing every inch of him and he's fairly sure he's going to suffocate.

Until he feels the brutal-tight grip of Sam's hand, followed immediately by strength -

Sam pulls and Dean feels like his arms are going to come out of their sockets but he slides out of the ground, dirt showering off his back and legs in one great heave, until he's sprawled, gasping, on the freezing wet slush surrounding the hole. Breathing like a damn racehorse.

Sam slaps him on the back and he's about to tell him that's not helping, at all - but it kind of is.

Really kind of is. It's nice to not be suffocating.

It's not the first time he's clawed his way out of the ground but he doesn’t think that's ever the sort of thing you get used to.

"I don't know what it is," Dean complains hoarsely. "But it's big, it's really freakin' big."

He drags himself to his feet, lets Sam untangles the rope from his waist. Sam's breathing hard too and Dean catches the bright flash of red on his brother's palm where he'd hauled him all the way out of the dirt. Dean smacks a hand on Sam's shoulder, to show that he appreciates it, showering dirt everywhere.

The quiet is broken by the sound of cars and conversation, loud and impatient, far off to the left where woodland becomes the outskirts of town.

"Sounds like something's going on," Dean decides, and they both make their way towards the noise.

Three cars have stopped in the middle of the road like whatever's going on is more important than anywhere they have to be.

Sam wanders close enough to talk to the men in the car nearest to them, while Dean pats the last of the dirt off of his shoulder, presses two fingers into the sharp point of pain on his forehead and isn't surprised in the slightest when they come away bloody.

"Crap."

When Sam comes back Dean jerks his head in question.

"Apparently someone else has gone missing. A woman who usually walks her dog across from here. They found the dog, or at least what's left of it."

"Nice, any sign?"

"Nothing but a big smashed clearing and some broken branches," Sam tells him, but then, Dean was expecting something like that.

  
***

  
The woman on the corner had recognised Dean as one of the people looking for the missing woman, Annabelle Clay, and hadn't let him leave without two cups of eggnog, smelling like cream and liquor. One for him and one for his 'very tall friend.'

It's actually good, really good, it slides down in a way that makes him forget - or maybe not even realise - exactly how much booze she'd snuck into it.

She'd also asked what had happened to him, wincing in sympathy at the large gash on his forehead.

Dean sometimes forgets that other people don't routinely get slammed into furniture and buried in holes. He can't actually remember what he told her. He hopes that doesn't come back to bite him on the ass later.

He checks his phone. There are no messages from Sam yet, so he either hasn't found anything yet or he got lost in a library somewhere.

He has Castiel's number in his phone now, and if that isn't ridiculous in some way he can't name then he doesn't know what is. It sits there in text though, where he added it the first time, right near the top.

He stares at it, that string of numbers, hotline to an angel.

How hard would it be to call him, to just call him up and ask, just push a button.

But this isn't an apocalypse sort of case, this is four people missing - five - no one turned up dead yet, though Dean's pretty damn sure they're no longer breathing. There's no reason to call Cas.

No reason other than 'so, dude, I was wondering if you wanted to spend Christmas with us.'

He can't get that to not sound stupid no matter how many times he runs it round his head. He doesn’t even know why, it's not like he's asking the angel to be his date to a wedding for Christ's sake, it's just Christmas. You ask your friends round for Christmas.

Even if your friends weren't usually angels.

He ignores the part of his brain that points out that if Castiel really was just a friend this would be a hell of a lot easier. He tosses his phone down on the table, watches the light go out and calls himself a dozen types of stupid.

He still hasn't worked out exactly what the hell he thinks he's doing when Sam comes in out of the cold, trailing snow and frigid air.

"Hey Sam, thought you got lost."

He offers the tall cup, still steaming faintly, in Sam's direction.

Sam dumps his bag on the floor, pulls his coat off and throws it over one of the beds.

"What is it?"

"Eggnog. It's good."

"Did you make it?" Sam asks cautiously. Like he thinks maybe Dean's new obsession has led to him doing creepy and sinister out of character things, like baking and making his own ornaments.

Dean pulls a face at him, because seriously? Seriously?

"No, I didn't make it, they were giving it out to the people looking for the girl. I was given one for you too."

He feels compelled to not let that be the end of it.

"If you don't want it just say so, dude, don't stare at it like it's poison."

Sam laughs like he's not entirely convinced it isn't.

Dean slams the cup on the table hard enough to dent it and Sam's expression of amusement turns to something surprised.

"Dean-"

"Can you just go with it," Dean isn't quite sure how that comes out more quietly hopeful than annoyed but Sam's irritated face freezes and then disappears entirely.

"This is really important to you, isn't it?" he says quietly.

Sam's not just curious but confused as well, like just wanting something like this is strange, like it isn't like him. Dean frowns because, if anything, that expression on Sam’s face is already a protest, not against this, not against something stupid and normal but against the fact that Dean could possibly want it. That he's trying.

And it's that more than anything else that threatens to make all of this, all of whatever this is, drain out of him.

"Y'know what, forget it." See if he brings Sam a delicious alcoholic Christmas drink again.

"No," Sam says, fierce and loud, like maybe he realises he's just given Dean's cautious and unexpected seasonal enthusiasm a heavy enough kick that it's already started to tilt over like a precarious house of cards.

He clearly feels bad about it. All over-sized awkward shuffling into Dean's space, peering into the polystyrene mug.

Dean shunts it along the side, and Sam clearly understands that he's not just getting booze here. He's getting Dean's cautious 'non-apology accepted' face in with the bargain.

They're messed up in so many tangled up and familiar ways.

He doesn't get the chance to find out what Sam thinks about it, because his phone rings.

He flips it open and finds Castiel's number.

"Yeah."

"Where are you?"

Dean tells him, and that's it, click and dial tone on the other end.

"We're going to have to teach him phone manners," he tells Sam.

Which is as much as he manages, because now there's an angel in the room.

Sam ends up with eggnog on his nose and Dean decides that's probably justice enough for his behaving like a dick.

"Dean, Sam."

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, casual across the room. Damned if he isn't going to get away with the fact that he's spent the last few days wondering how to get Castiel here, and whether he's actually got the balls to genuinely just ask him. Even without any apocalyptic omens to give him an excuse.

Castiel seems curious to know what Sam is trying to wipe off his own nose.

"It's eggnog," Dean says helpfully. "Christmas missing person search drink of choice."

Sam clears his throat and attempts - but mostly fails - to look like he doesn't throw his drinks over himself all the time.

"Let the angel try it," Dean encourages.

"Dean, he doesn't drink."

Dean rolls his eyes and takes the lid off his own cup.

"Try it," he says flatly, and hands it over, expression telling the angel that saying 'no' is not an option.

Castiel very cautiously raises a hand and takes the cup from him.

He looks up, finds Dean watching him, and Dean's not entirely sure what expression is on his own face but it makes Castiel tilt the cup to his mouth and take a drink.

Sam watches him like it might actually make him explode, though it occurs to Dean that he wasn't around for the whole 'beer incident.'

Castiel lowers the cup.

"It's alcoholic," he says carefully.

"Yes, it is." Sam makes it sound like Dean is a terrible, terrible person to give alcoholic drinks to an angel.

Dean's fairly sure he'll be fine, he's watched him drink beer, and he figures nothing dramatic happens to Castiel's body without his permission.

Nothing Dean hasn't lured him into anyway.

There's a good chance he is actually a bad influence.

Sam's shooting him a look like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking and he agrees completely.

Dean looks at Castiel, who's now peering into his cup, upper lip smeared white. If Dean was forced to translate the expression on his face he'd say the angel looks intrigued.

Well, hell. Have they actually found something he likes?

Castiel catches Dean watching and realises his curiosity is a thing of fascination, seems to try and regain a little of his angelic seriousness.

"The signs here are not good, I believe the thing you are hunting is more dangerous than you realise," he tells them.

"Yeah, I nearly got buried alive in a tunnel it made just outside town."

Castiel nods.

"I believe it's a troll," he says seriously.

Sam blinks.

Dean leans forward.

"Ok, no more eggnog for you," he says and carefully eases the cup out of his hand.

Castiel seems to realise he's been untidy with his beverages and wipes a hand over his mouth.

"Wait a minute," Sam holds a hand up.

"Seriously, a troll? An _actual_ troll?"

Dean knows Sam's face well enough to know that he's not convinced.

"Elemental creatures that rarely come above ground," Castiel supplies, like it never occurs to him that the question there might be 'what the hell' instead of 'please, enlighten us.'

"Oh, whatever this thing is, it's above ground," Dean adds. "Trust me, it's above ground, and it's snatching people up like it's going out of fashion."

"Trolls have not come up from the deep far enough to prey upon humans for many centuries." Castiel always sounds far more comfortable when he's in lecture mode.

"Which explains why we've never heard of anyone hunting one," Dean offers.

"Well, at least we know what we're supposed to be researching now," Sam still sounds more than a little dubious.

"Trolls are formidable," Castiel says seriously, which sounds like angel-talk for badass-as-hell.

"Great."

"I'm gonna go take a shower," Sam decides. He stares at his cup of eggnog for a second, then offers it to Castiel, possibly just to spite Dean.

The angel's eyes briefly widen in surprise before he cautiously lifts a hand and takes it from him.

"Thank you, Sam."

Sam smiles at him, wide but with that edge of uncertainty that's always there around Cas, then drifts over to his bag, carries it into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Castiel looks at the cup for a second, and then cautiously drinks.

Dean huffs surprised amusement.

"You know I think that's the first time I've seen you do something just for the hell of it," he says quietly.

Castiel wipes his upper lip with his hand.

"It's good," Castiel offers cautiously. Like having an opinion on something is still difficult.

He looks around, as if trying to find somewhere to set his drink down. But he seems to find their tree curiously distracting.

"I guess this all seems pretty weird to you, huh?" Dean asks.

"Traditions make people feel safe," Castiel says quietly. "They make people feel connected to each other."

Dean decides that's pretty much an opening if he's ever heard one, so he should stop being a bitch and just take it.

"So, I was going to ask you something." He leans into the side, and Castiel's expression is suddenly intent, like he's watching everything, waiting with a curious air of expectation.

Dean's not sure if that makes it easier or harder.

"So, do you want to - you can stay with us, over Christmas, if you want to. If you don't have anything else to do." It sounds nothing like the offer it was supposed to be. Strange and awkward, like he's forced to leave the words out there but doesn't care about the answer.

Which he does.

But he thinks he's gotten far too good at pretending he doesn't care about things when he does.

Castiel looks genuinely surprised for a long moment, but then he frowns, a deep frown that looks conflicted, uncomfortable.

"Don't feel that you have to make allowances for me," Castiel tells him, in a voice that sounds rougher than usual.

"We're not making allowances, this isn't..." He thinks, helplessly, 'this isn't pity' but, hell no, he isn't phrasing it like that.

"Dean, you don't have to include me in your plans," Castiel says quietly.

"We want you to stay. I want you to stay." Dean shrugs. "It's not like we're going to be doing anything; sitting around nursing our bruises mostly, in the snow; it's not Christmas without snow and all that other stupid stuff. But you're kind of one of us. Hell you are one of us now, and if you want to..." he lets the rest trail off.

Castiel tips his head, like he doesn't entirely believe the words, but something in Dean's face seems to be honest for once, or honest enough. As long as it isn't too honest he doesn't care.

Castiel's expression softens into surprise, something that's searching in a new way. Like Castiel's not quite sure what he did to merit the invitation. But that he's touched that Dean thought of him, and maybe that's awkward in a way Dean should be worried about, should be steering the conversation away from. But he doesn't.

Castiel doesn't quite smile but his mouth is softer, less straight and it's almost like they're talking about something else entirely. That there's a whole conversation under the words that Dean's missed.

He wonders how the hell he's managed to learn Castiel's barely-there expressions so well.

"I'd like that," Castiel says quietly, and it's so sincere Dean has to look away, has to rub at the back of his neck and focus on the faraway clatter of Sam in the bathroom.

He drags himself, forcibly, back to the matter of the missing people.

"So, if this thing is a troll how do we find it?"

"Following the creature's tunnel while it's above ground should lead you to where it intends to take its next victim. Trolls have been known to keep their prey alive underground for many days before devouring them."

"So the girl might still be alive."

"There's a very good chance."

So, sometime later tonight, they're going out to hunt themselves a troll.

"You coming with us?"

Castiel nods, like there was never any other answer. "I'll come with you."

  
***

  
They get back to the tunnel that collapsed on him at just after three in the morning. It's opened out again, it's bitterly cold and the air's sharp and still, like it's waiting for something, but the tunnel mouth steams into the night.

They don't find the troll in the tunnel. Dean's not entirely happy about being down there again. But it's an improvement to have Sam and Castiel walking silently through the dirt with him.

It meanders off in several directions. Dean follows Castiel, since he assumes the angel knows where he's going, Sam follows Dean.

The tunnel finally opens out into the back of a Christmas tree lot, cold and deserted and sparkling where the snow's fallen on everything.

"I'm not sure if this is appropriate or really ironic," Sam says quietly. He's carrying a shotgun too, and though Dean's fairly sure the thing isn't going to bring whatever was in that tunnel down, it's still reassuring.

Nothing's going to like a shotgun blast to the face, right?

He swings his head sideways and finds Castiel, who tips his chin up like he's answering a question Dean never asked.

Yeah, so maybe an angel can take a shotgun blast to the face and not flinch, but this thing isn't an angel, it's a - hell, Dean isn't exactly sure how you'd classify it.

It's not human, it's not demon, and it sure as hell isn't angel. He's not sure what he thinks of this weird other category.

Whatever it is, it looks like it's not here yet.

He's barely thought it when the ground shakes under them like someone smashed into it with a giant fist, and Dean nearly ends up on his knees.

"What the hell -"

It doesn't come out of the tunnel. It punches straight up through the ground head-first. One moment they're standing and the next they're sprawled on the floor and rock is smashing out in pieces. Dean gets hit in the back and the legs and he swears, torn between tucking up and getting the hell out of the way.

The roar behind him and Sam's breathless 'Holy shit,' decides for him, and he's rolling and getting his legs under him.

The troll is unfolding itself from the ground in one vast movement. It's halfway between rock and pitted dark flesh, and nine - no, ten - feet tall, huge mouth opening in an angry tear of sound.

Its vast square teeth are big enough to bite Dean in half, in freakin' _half._

He's seen enough; he's up and he's dragging Sam with him.

"Sam, find the girl," Dean shouts and he has faith - if he doesn't have faith in anything else - that Sam will do it.

He waits just long enough to hear his brother's boots thunder past him.

Then he shoots it.

It rears backwards, just a little, a sway of its huge rock-like face.

It seems more bewildered by the smell than hurt by the blast.

Dean shoots it again, and it takes two angry steps forward, ground shuddering underneath it.

It doesn’t look like he's slowed it down it in the slightest.

"Oh, hell no."

Time for plan B.

Dean takes off running. Because now all he has to do is find a way to kill a troll - the ground cracks behind him and a cart goes flying over his head- hopefully _before_ it smashes him into bite sized pieces.

He cuts left into the row of trees, end of the year too-bare-to-be-loved trees, sleeves crashing into their branches and throwing snow up everywhere.

He bursts out into gravel, straight in front of the troll, and it's much too close.

Castiel's there, right there, throwing an arm out. He shoves Dean hard enough to send him slamming to the floor, and - damn - he feels that, he feels every bone-jarring second of it.

The troll's massive arm catches the angel full in the chest, one solid 'smack' that actually sends him crashing through a row of trees.

Holy shit.

Dean's kind of amazed at the power behind the swing and he counts himself pretty damn lucky that wasn't him. He's fairly sure the thing's strong enough to kill him without even thinking about it.

It doesn't hang around to see if it can smash the angel to bits though; it turns around to see where Dean has gotten to.

"Crap."

Dean gets his boots under him, rubber sliding in wet gravel and slush and he takes off through the trees. If he can find something in the way of heavy duty equipment, a chainsaw, an axe, a God damn wood chipper...something.

The ground shudders behind him, gravel thrown up in a shower and this - this is officially one of his best ideas ever.

A Christmas tree goes flying over his head and he has half a second to wonder where the hell Sam got to when he gets hit in the back by a branch and loses his feet out from under him, lands on his hands, skids on a hiss of pain and ends up buried in a pile of branches to the left.

He's fairly sure if he doesn't move soon he's going to get trodden on, and he's almost certainly not going to get up from that.

He shoves his way free, slams into another tree to avoid getting his head taken off and ends up against the chain link fence at the end of the lot and it's going to take him longer to climb than it will take the troll to demolish.

The angel has dragged himself out of the trees, but he looks almost helplessly small next to the troll's unnatural size, coat fluttering in the half-darkness as he steps out of the way of a swing.

But the troll staggers when Castiel slams a fist into its side. It takes three lurching steps sideways under the force of it and roars like it's amazed the tiny thing managed to hurt it. It flings an arm out, defensive, angry, and catches Castiel in the face, sends him skidding along the floor and it's only the fact that Dean's almost certain the pounding won't kill him that stops him from trying to go after him. Instead he uses the distraction to be up and off across the lot, wondering how the hell you were supposed to kill a troll when it could take a punch off an angel.

Dean thinks maybe they need a rocket launcher, or something equally dramatic.

He's not exactly an expert in mythical races and large scale explosive weaponry.

Where the hell is Sam?

Dean slams into a tray of compost and hits the floor crooked, sprawled under the vast heaving weight of it, slush freezing and melting into the back of his jacket.

The troll swings its arms over his head and it's so big there's going to be no rolling out of the way of it. This is it, game over, he's going to be crushed.

The arms never come down.

The troll glitters in the light.

Sunlight streams weakly through its upraised fists, making the trees around it sparkle white.

It turns out some legends are true after all, because the troll has turned to stone.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says breathlessly.

He falls back into the snow with an exhausted huff.

Hopes like hell the damn thing doesn't fall on him.

He stays there, getting his breath back for a handful of seconds, before he hears boots on gravel.

"You took your time," Dean accuses.

"Apparently, trolls turn to stone in the sunlight," Sam says over his head, and reaches an arm down, helping to haul Dean to his feet.

"Dude, did you know that for sure or were you just guessing?"

"I was confident," Sam says simply.

Dean scoffs and brushes snow off his pants. Castiel is hovering at Sam's side. His shirt has come untucked at some point, probably when he got flung into a row of trees and there's a fine line of blood across the bridge of his nose.

"You okay, Cas?" Dean asks.

"I'm fine, Dean," he says quietly, and it sounds absolutely true. It sounds better than true.

"We're going to need a sledgehammer or something -" Dean starts.

Castiel takes a step forward, lays a hand on the huge statue and pushes.

It falls slowly, heavily. When it hits the floor it smashes like it was waiting for just that, a great explosion of pieces that scatter away, leaving nothing of its shape but one large foot and an upper jaw filled with square teeth.

"Or you could do that," he says instead.

The pile of stone sparkles in the snow like it's made of tiny diamonds and whoever owns this place is going to be pissed when they get back here and find the place trashed and full of bits of troll.

Not that they'll know it's bits of troll.

Still a lot to shovel up, no matter what.

  
***

  
They head back to the office, where Sam had left the girl after finding her half-way down the second tunnel.

She's still too shaken to make much sense, but Dean can already see her carefully putting the pieces together in a way she can deal with. He figures after a drink and a little of Sam's easy company, non-threatening face and earnest waffle about how 'the world's a safe place, honest' she'll be as good as she ever was. Considering. Maybe she'll be better, maybe she'll be the one that doesn’t panic next time.

Or maybe she'll think she dreamt the whole thing by morning. You can never tell for sure.

Sam takes her home, wrapped in his huge coat.

Dean watches them leave the lot, Sam shortening his huge gangly steps so she doesn’t feel left behind.

When he looks up again Castiel hasn't moved, and he's still -

"Dude, come here," Dean says with a laugh and he pulls Castiel close by the loose edge of his shirt, which he pushes back into Castiel's pants with a snort of amusement.

"You're gonna have to work out how to fix your own clothes eventually. You can't just mojo them all back straight every time you get into a punch-up with a troll."

He fixes the swing of his Castiel's jacket, watches the angel watch him with that curious, intrigued expression. Like everything is so damn fascinating.

Finally, Dean wipes the line of line of blood off the bridge of the angel's nose, isn't surprised to find the skin underneath completely clean and unbroken.

It occurs to Dean, all at once. That this really isn't the sort of thing you do for another guy. This isn't the sort of thing Dean does for anyone. Or maybe even should. There's a line here and he's crossed it, again, without even thinking about it, and it doesn't matter that Castiel doesn't see it, that he reacts as if it's not even there. Like it's not important.

Castiel's not the only one that's been pushing at someone else's personal space. Dean's been pushing too, pushing where Castiel lets him, where he never refuses him, or protests, or tries to stop him.

Like it's his right.

Like he belongs there.

Dean pulls his hands away, and takes a breath, before shoving his hands in his pockets and breathing visible plumes of air into the cold.

God help him, sometimes he thinks maybe he wants to belong there.

He might hate himself a little for that.

"You're in this place in my head," he says quietly, without even meaning to.

Castiel lifts his face, relaxed and curious, like nothing Dean ever has to say is anything other than world-shaking and Dean almost wants to laugh at the sheer ridiculous wrongness of that.

"This place that other people don't just get into without being...something first. I don't know whether it's because you're an angel or because you pulled me out of hell. Or some other reason. But you're there, and there's this _thing_ , and most of the time I don't know what to do with that, or sometimes I do but I'm fairly sure it's not right, that _that's_ not what I'm supposed to be thinking. Because that's not me, that's not what I do-"

Dean chances a look at the angel. But Castiel's expression gives him absolutely no clue what he's thinking. Dean doesn't know if Castiel understands what he's trying to say. Hell, even Dean isn't entirely sure what he's trying to say.

"I want to kiss you," he admits bluntly, and, yeah, that's about as honest as it gets and there's no way to mistake that for anything else.

The air is cold in his open mouth, a sharp stab of almost-pain that feels like every Christmas that's gone before.

Only this time there's nothing to chase, nothing to kill, there's just Dean, on his own, making ridiculous admissions to an angel in the middle of the night, on Christmas Eve.

"You can, if you want to." Castiel's voice is deep and firm, serious in a way that seems so wrong and yet so perfectly him.

Dean exhales, one rough burst of air, because thinking about it's one thing, thinking about it's hard enough. That soft, unhesitant offer, is like permission, but it's thrown out so easily, like it won't mean anything at all.

It shouldn't be that easy, it just shouldn't, it should be harder. Everything that's worth something is hard. If he doesn't have to fight for it -

"Cas-"

"You don't have to feel guilty," Castiel protests, like he already knows everything Dean's still trying to work out.

"I'm fairly sure I should feel guilty about what I want," Dean tells him, and he doesn't mean it to come out sounding so fierce.

"It's very human," Castiel says quietly, and Dean thinks he means it to sound reassuring, but it doesn't, it really doesn't. He can't stop hearing it as some sort of excuse, like it's a failure of his species, to want.

"You're not human." He makes it sound like an accusation and he doesn't even know why.

But Castiel has turned to face him now, face soft and curious, like he's waiting, or maybe daring Dean to follow through, to act on whatever this thing is that has him twisting. Castiel just waits.

"Cas -" he holds back the words 'I can't' because it's not true. It's not that he can't, it's that he's afraid it's not right, or that he's going to mess it up, and hell, he's got a shitty track record of knowing what's right. But, God damn him, he just wants something for himself. Just this once, something that's not about what he's supposed to do, or the fate of the world, or Sam.

He takes a step, snow crunching under his boots, and lays a hand, strangely clinically, on Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel's mouth is cold, cold like he'd been outside in the night air forever. But it's soft under his own; it doesn't try and kiss him back, but it does tilt into him. He's all softness and give under the pressure. Like he's welcome, more than welcome. Like maybe Castiel has just been waiting for something like this.

Dean pulls away, shivers, and maybe that's the cold.

"You're freezing," he says quietly, because it's easier than saying anything else, easier than trying to breathe out words that mean something when the angel's looking up at him like that, like he's just waiting for Dean to decide how much he wants to take.

He doesn't get to have things like this. But he can't stay away, he just can't.

Castiel's cold mouth opens and Dean takes it as permission, slides his way carefully inside. His fingers trail the cold, rough edge of Castiel's face, turning him, just a little, into the kiss. His movements are slow, measured, learning where Dean shows him.

It seems impossible that he should just be allowed to do this, to kiss an angel in the snow on Christmas Eve.

And Dean thinks maybe it's that thought that makes him pull away, that forces his hand down and away, mouth instantly colder, and strangely lost.

"We should get back," Dean says quietly. Though he's afraid, almost stupidly so, of them moving and pretending this thing never happened.

Of this being some weird holiday induced hallucination.

But Castiel is already nodding, taking a step away and waiting for Dean to lead, waiting for Dean to walk them both home.

  
***

  
The room's cold when they get back, but Dean takes his coat off anyway, throws it over one of the chairs.

Castiel waits, strangely still, but he doesn't stray far. As if he thinks there's something left unfinished, something that Dean started when he kissed him. As if the angel's unwilling to let Dean forget, but unsure how to tell him as much.

Or maybe that's just what he wants to be true.

"Dean," Castiel says, soft and sure, and Dean knows he was right, he was absolutely right and it almost hurts that he can read Castiel that well, when he shouldn't be able to. This shouldn't be something they can just do. It feels like the whole damn world is pretending it's easy.

It's not fair that Castiel can say so much when he's saying almost nothing at all.

Dean takes two steps, touches him again, not in the snow but in the half chill of the room, behind closed doors and two feet from a bed and can't think about anything but that. Human, it's all so brutally human.

He pulls away, shakes his head.

"Would you still do this, if it was just about sex, if that's all I wanted, would you still let me -"

"Yes," Castiel says, without hesitation, and Dean swallows, fingers not quite as certain where they shift in the hair at the back of Castiel's neck, fine and soft and human. He's not sure if he's allowed to hold on, but he can't quite make himself let go.

"That doesn't make me feel better you know."

"It's the truth," Castiel says quietly, and maybe he understands the truth is important, whether it hurts or not. "The moment this body was mine and mine alone, I would have said yes, if you'd asked."

"Why?"

Castiel doesn't reply, simply looks at him, as if the answer should be obvious. Like Dean already knows, whether he's ready to admit it or not.

It's snowing outside now, thick heavy flakes in the almost light. Though Dean's pretty sure there wasn't supposed to be any. He checked before they went into the giant scary hole in the ground.

"Are you doing that?" he asks curiously.

Castiel looks at him again, then looks out of the window.

"Small changes in atmospheric pressure and temperature are relatively easy to make."

"That's a yes?"

"Yes, I am," Castiel says quietly.

"You're making it snow," Dean points out. "That's kind of awesome."

Because - yeah, as presents go, this is pretty hard to beat.

"You said there should be snow," Castiel says simply, and Dean huffs laughter, because Castiel remembers so many ridiculous things that aren't important until they _are_.

"You're not going to bring the entire mid-west to a standstill, are you?" he asks, eyeing the way the snow is very quickly getting heavier and thicker.

"No," Castiel says simply, softly, and lifts a hand, lays it on the back of Dean's head and pulls, just a little. Making a decision for himself. Dean thinks that's maybe all he's been waiting for, because he goes willingly.

"Are you really sure I can do this?" there's more than a hint of desperation there, but more than anything he sounds like he expects to be told 'no.' He'd probably be ashamed of that if he didn't feel like he was going to shiver out of his own skin at any moment. Castiel's mouth is so close he can't look at anything else.

God, he's stupid with how much he wants.

Instead of answering, Castiel lays his hands on his own coat and pushes it back over his shoulders.

It's a strange gesture, like he's never had to take his clothes off but is aware of the mechanics.

But it hits Dean there, right there, that Castiel is willing to undress for him.

To go wherever he wants to take him.

Dean catches his hands, stops them.

"Hey, let me," he says, and Castiel stills, then Dean's the one pushing the material down his arms, letting it fall, spreading his hands under the jacket, finding Castiel strangely smaller as the layers slide away.

Castiel's jacket and shirt end up on the floor in curves of crisp fabric.

Dean's own shirt is left to fall to the side. Castiel's hands rise curiously to the button and zipper of Dean's jeans. He spends a moment touching the skin there while Dean breathes and twitches under the attention, more nervous shivery arousal than impatience, before his fingers carefully work his jeans open, push at the loosened edge.

The last of their clothes end up on the floor too. Dean stops for just a moment to get something from his bag and then presses Castiel down into the sheets, hands on his skin, chest pushed down into the frigid expanse of his own. He inhales at the first touch and then holds him there, warming the angel with his own body heat, breathing into the chilled curve of his throat.

Castiel pulls his mouth back up to his own, breathes into him, hands open on Dean's back. His eyes are darker, more intense, and Dean realises, when Castiel pushes into every touch, when he opens every time Dean strays back to his mouth, and when his fingers dig in, just a little harder on every breath, that this isn't going to be a careful exploration.

That they're going to _burn_ together.

And God, he wants that, but maybe that's what he's afraid of.

"Tell me you want this." It's more desperation than question, because it's already much too late, he's already touching, pushing warmth where Castiel's neck meets his shoulder and the smooth curve where hip becomes thigh. He's so much more real than Dean expects. He feels human, feels like flesh and blood and maybe that should be strange but it just makes Dean want to press deeper, and maybe never let go.

"Tell me Cas, because I don't want to stop."

Castiel's fingers dig in, quick and sharp.

"Don't stop," he says simply.

"Do you even know what you’re giving me permission to do?"

"I'm aware of how this works," Castiel tells him, but he sounds nervous.

"If you don't want -"

Castiel's hands open, hold his waist and then slide upwards, strangely reverent along his ribs, a slow but sure slide of chilled fingers.

"I want," he says simply, and Dean breathes surprise at the soft admission.

Castiel pulls him down, brings their hips together, seemingly to prove his own words, where he presses into Dean, where he's warm and hard and just as desperate.

Dean breathes half-words against Castiel's skin, tastes the curve of his throat and the soft-hard edges of his collarbone, sliding down to open his mouth around a nipple. He can't resist lingering there, pressing down with the flat of his tongue until Castiel's fingers touch, carefully, in his hair. He shivers and makes tiny breathless noises of pleasure like his skin is brand new, like Dean is breaking him open everywhere.

Until Castiel eases him back and turns over, knees sliding in the sheets, and Dean's breath lodges in his throat at what that means, at how easily Castiel gives. Dean's hand moves to catch at the angel's warm skin, the curve of waist and hips and thigh where he's all long naked lines of back and thighs.

Dean presses into the warmth of Castiel's back, skin real under his own and Castiel groans, low in his throat, a greedy noise that sounds so human that Dean has to drop his head and open his mouth there, has to taste where angel becomes man.

Castiel murmurs encouragement like he knows exactly what he's thinking.

Dean's hand strays to the bed, finds the oil and takes a moment to coat his fingers before he presses one inside, feels Castiel go still under the invasion.

He's careful, slow, not entirely sure whether invulnerable means unbreakable. Dean's not completely out of his depth here, he's done anal before but never like this, never with a guy and never, never with anyone who's so impossibly different.

He's two fingers deep when Castiel very carefully pushes back.

"Cas - Jesus - tell me if I hurt you."

"You won't," Castiel says, low in his throat, and the deepness of his voice sends a quick low ache through him, dick heavy and hot, and Dean has to press himself into the muscle of Castiel's thigh and breathe, just fucking breathe, for a second.

Between one sharply indrawn breath and the next Dean has one hand on Castiel's waist, the other pushing three fingers into him.

Then Cas murmurs his name, soft, desperate, and Dean's moving up, finding where he's slick and open and pressing in, all the way in, one long impossible slide into the heat of him.

Castiel shudders, head dropping forward, back curving gently and he takes everything. Opens and bends to take Dean and they fit together in a way that's so good it has to be right.

Dean knows how strong Castiel is, how impossible, but for now he's human under his hands, soft under the dig of his fingers. Some strange and blasphemous show of faith, of vulnerability that Dean doesn't know what to do with. But he wants it, even if he shouldn't, even if it's wrong.

It's too good, sensation and desperation painting over his thoughts in wide, thick lines and Dean doesn't know if this is too hard or not hard enough.

But Castiel doesn't say stop, maybe doesn't have the words left, just fragments of them, shoved out every time Dean pushes in. Breathing unsteady and low, like Dean's dragged him somewhere human, somewhere hot and liquid and strange, and Dean honestly doesn't know if either of them can take it.

But then Castiel's shivering and pressing back into each shove. A quick, greedy demand for more, and when Dean reaches round to touch him he finds his dick a solid line of need, and Castiel groans shaky approval when his half-slick hand wraps around him.

Dean's forced into a pace that's steady but hard and deep, barely clinging to the ragged edge, until Castiel's voice goes low and rough and broken and then stops in something that sounds like a gasp and he comes over Dean's hand, hot and shaky and falling apart in a moan of stunned awe.

Dean curves over his back, mouth open on the warmth of his skin, He groans his way through pleasure so sharp it's almost-pain and dies, just a little.

When he can breathe again he runs his hands over the shivery lines of Castiel's skin, holding him as he shakes his way back down.

"Cas," Dean sounds breathless, broken. "You okay."

The angel's still for a long moment, and then he very slowly nods.

Dean carefully slips free of him, doesn't miss the tiny noise, the way Castiel curves back and tries to follow him, then stops himself.

Dean eases them both down into the sheets, breathes into Castiel's hair.

"That was a little much for you, wasn't it," he says quietly.

He hears the swallow beside him, feels the very gentle movement when Castiel nods again.

"It's okay," Dean says simply.

Because he thinks maybe he understands that. Understands those moments when you find something you never knew was there.

"Just stay here for a while."

Castiel relaxes, almost gratefully, against him.

Dean's hands are still moving, directionless and slow, on the skin of Castiel's arm and waist.

He can't quite make them stop.

  
***

  
When Dean wakes up, Castiel is by the window.

He's managed to put his pants back on, but judging by the mess of clothing still on the floor that's pretty much it.

Dean finds his cold, really cold, jeans and drags them on, then makes his way over to him.

"You ok, Cas?"

Castiel turns to look at him, and his expression is soft, open.

"Yes," he says simply, like he's never been more sure of anything.

He looks out to see what the angel's finding so fascinating.

There's a hell of a lot of snow. Some kids are making an anatomically correct snowman in the parking lot. Dean raises an eyebrow at Castiel, though the effort's wasted; the angel's watching the kids dress the snowman in a variety of non-seasonal clothing.

"There's two feet of snow outside," he points out.

Castiel turns his head towards him, curious.

"That's a lot of snow, Cas," Dean offers, when it seems he needs an explanation.

"I was distracted," Castiel says quietly, and there's maybe just a flicker of guilty apology in his face.

Dean huffs amusement and leans in close, one hand strangely awkward on Castiel's waist, but when there's no reaction he says 'to hell with it,' and winds it all the way round, leans into him.

Castiel is warm, fiercely warm, under Dean's chest.

  



End file.
